Rhiannon
by SciFiSis
Summary: The man upstairs finally decides to even the odds. Better late than never, Abbie supposes. A continuation from the finale. Spoilers for season one.
1. Part I

**A/N: **Warnings for drug use, mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts, and allusions to rape in this part. Subsequent parts will be lighter.

* * *

**Rhiannon**

* * *

**Part I**

* * *

"Wake up," the voice says, and Abbie's eyes fly open. In the dimness, she can make out a blurry mass in the corner of the room. When her vision clears, Abbie's stomach lurches. Luke smiles at her.

"You were out for a while this time. Good nap?" She twists her body on the bed, putting her back to the corner. The whole room seems to echo with the creaks of the rusty frame.

Footsteps make the floorboards groan. As he approaches, Abbie tenses. "Hey, c'mon. Don't be like that." Abbie doesn't respond. "Don't you want to know how long it's been? I know you stopped counting."

Teeth sink into the flesh of her lips, the pain providing only a momentary distraction. The bed dips when he lowers himself onto it. Abbie forces herself to remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of feeling her shrink away even though every single cell in her body screams to do just that.

"Well, I for one am disappointed," he continues. "I mean, you came in here guns blazing, all brash and bravado and defiance. I really expected you to last longer than this, Abbs."

Abbie clenches her jaw. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? You used to love when I called you that."

"You aren't Luke."

A sigh wafts over her head. "You know Abbs, you're making this a lot harder than it has to be. I don't think you understand how much you have to offer. No one says you have to stay here and suffer."

"Go away," Abbie says, even though that never works.

"Make me. You can, you know. You can make this all go away. Right now."

Her eyes draw open. She does not look at the figure seated on the end of her bed, but instead towards the nightstand. Just for a moment. Then she jerks her head away from the sight.

"You're in pain," he reasons. "You can make it all stop."

Abbie ignores him. _It_. She's done talking.

The bed creaks as the specter rises. When he speaks again, it's no longer Luke's voice. "Sooner or later, you will give in. And I will be waiting."

And then she is alone in the room again. It's no comfort. Her eyes fall closed.

* * *

The first night in Purgatory, she dreams of the overdose.

Abbie thought she knew what despair was. Parents dead, sister gone, night terrors of horned creatures coming out of the ground in front of a line of four ghost-white trees, an old house with strangers to whom she was a burden and who made damn well sure she knew it. There were days when she felt threadbare, like the smallest thing could break her apart. The despair had clawed at her insides until she was a raw shell that thought only of an ending.

Then, she'd discovered pills. It had been _perfect_, the numb lethargy that overtook her on hydrocodone and how it made the world just a little bit more bearable. The pain and sadness and void inside of her filled enough so that she could not only function, but feel better. Happy, artificial as it was.

But the effects of that momentary escape had diminishing returns. Abbie remembers that feeling, that frantic craving for a fix to stopper the pain. Chasing highs that were never as sweet as the first one, taking more and more until one day it'd been too much.

Overdosing had been like nothing she'd expected. It'd been easy, so easy to take a handful instead of just a couple. There'd been no fear, no regret and best of all, no pain. Letting the endless stretch of blissful oblivion drag her down felt like mercy and no high before or since had felt as good. She'd woken up with Oscar standing over her, shoes covered in her vomit and begging her to breathe, fingers bloody with marks from her teeth. And oh, she'd hated Oscar for saving her, even more than she'd hated him for bolting from the drug store when the sirens grew too loud. She should've seen that coming.

When she wakes from the dream, there's a prescription bottle on the nightstand next to the bed.

It is the first night, and Abbie thinks about dying.

* * *

Sunlight without any trace of warmth is streaming through the window. Around her the walls have gone gray and thick with padding. Abbie is in the center of the room and in the corner is a single twin bed. Her mother is sitting on it.

Her hair is wild and matted and the ward smock hangs too loosely on her frame. A long rope of bed sheets dangles from her neck like a leash. Abbie forces herself to keep looking.

"Grace." The voice is dead and empty and her eyes are hollow, exactly like Abbie remembers. Abbie doesn't move.

"You left me here," her mother says, rising from the bed. The words aren't true but they cut all the same. "Why didn't you help me?"

Abbie feels compelled to speak even though on some level she _knows_ this isn't real and that isn't her mother. "Because I couldn't."

"You could have helped Jenny."

And suddenly her sister is there on the bed, wrists and ankles bound and eyes glassy. Abbie hisses out a breath. Her mother takes a step closer.

"You were supposed to protect her." Sand pours out of her mouth.

_Please_, Abbie thinks into the dead air, biting her cheek so hard that she tastes the bitter tang of copper.

Her mother's jaw falls, mouth spreading grotesquely wide and the scream pierces her right to the core. Abbie flinches and covers her ears, finally turning away.

The world around her vanishes and she's on the bed in the dollhouse again, curled up with her hands still clamped over her ears. Cracks appear in the ceiling, sprinkling dust on Abbie's head. Around her, the foundation of the dollhouse groans.

"It's happening again," teenaged Jenny murmurs somewhere to her right. "Remember, Abbie: don't get scared."

But it isn't that simple. In this place, fear is tangible and irrepressible, alive and writhing under Abbie's skin, turning her blood to ice in her veins.

"He's close," her younger self says. "He can feel your fear. Get away from him."

Abbie exhales, shuddering and closes her eyes.

* * *

The second night in Purgatory, the reality sets in and for the first time since Corbin, Abbie cries. Eventually the tears stop even though the pain doesn't.

And then, she is _angry_. Angry at Parish, at the Horseman, at her mother and her father and Jenny and Crane. Angry at herself. Angry at God—but that was nothing new. And for a few moments, the anger swallows up the pain and the fear, leaving her wild with rage.

She beats her fists on the door, beats and beats and _beats_ until her knuckles split wide open. White light pours in through the dollhouse windows then and teenaged Jenny and Abbie have to drag her away from the door as Moloch roars just beyond the wood and plastic. The fury _consumes_ her and she thinks that if he was in the room with her, she'd claw the skin from his face with her bare hands.

Jenny and her younger self pin her down to the bed as she carries on, screaming and shrieking her threats, calling Moloch a son of a bitch and damning him, insisting that she'll get out of here and tear him apart, break every bone he has, saw off his horns and run them clean through his torso. She screams nonsense and threats until she's hoarse and exhausted from struggling. The walls around her rattle and Abbie thinks _let them come down_.

It is the second night, and Abbie dreams of vengeance.

* * *

She is walking through the woods at twilight. Around her, pale bodies are twisted into unnatural shapes, convulsing and twitching on the ground. Moans and whimpers and shrieks carry through the dead wood, raising gooseflesh on her skin. She finds Jenny tied to the trunk of one of the trees, ashen skin rotting and eyes milked over, talking backwards in a voice that has every hair on her body standing on end.

Her feet stall before the vision. Jenny tilts her head to the left, tilts it so far that a sickening crack rings through the woods. She smiles a demon's smile, and her laugh buries itself in the pit of Abbie's stomach as she forces her feet to move on. But Jenny is tied to the next tree, and the next, and the next.

The vision shifts and Abbie is suddenly nineteen years old, walking up 9th Avenue in New York, in a dress that's too short with a man that's too old. His arm is slung around her waist and he's breathing filthy things into her hair as they head back to his motel and Abbie can't bring herself to care, because Oxycontin-induced euphoria is singing in her veins, making her feel invincible and sluggish with satisfaction.

But this memory is worse than all the others and the spike of agony that accompanies it sends Abbie's mind spinning. The world rematerializes around her, this time forming her bedroom in her foster home. She is sixteen and is dragging a blade over the paper thin skin of her wrists, sobbing because she hasn't enough bravery to apply pressure.

The next moment she's in the dollhouse again, cheeks damp and vision blurred. Her younger self is peering at her, offering a drink of water in a cracked toy cup.

Abbie doesn't drink. She isn't sure what she can trust here any longer.

* * *

The third day, Abbie prays. She prays even though she isn't sure anyone can hear her in this place, even though she's cursed God more than she's ever praised Him and there's no reason He should start listening now after years of ignoring her, the bastard. She prays and prays and the only response she gets is a sense of Moloch's amusement. It seems to seep into every crack of the dollhouse and burrow itself into the Bible verses she recites in her mind.

While she's on her knees there, her father appears. The scent of whiskey fills the air and Abbie can't look away as he reaches two spindly fingers into his mouth and pulls out a tooth. It clatters to the floor, spattering the wood with specks of blood. Then, he rips out another. Abbie begins to pray aloud to muffle the sound.

She is through the Psalms when she realizes that her father is still in the corner, seated on a bar stool with a bottle of whiskey dangling from one hand. A pistol sits in his lap and that is splattered with blood, too.

_Go away_, she thinks viciously. Leaving was the only thing he'd ever been good at anyway. Makes no sense that he'd stick around now, even if it was to just torment her.

_We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God. _

The bottle suddenly hits the floor. It rolls across the wood, nudging Abbie's knee. Her father rises from his stool.

_Eternally begotten from the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God._

The gun in her father's hands seems to shine in the dim light. He lifts it and opens his mouth.

_Through him all things were made. For us and for our salvation he came down from Heaven—_

The gunshot is deafening. Her father crumples to the ground, dead even before Abbie can get to the Holy Spirit. Even when worms nudge themselves up through the floorboards and crawl over the body in the corner, even when the smell becomes so pungent Abbie wants to retch, she prays on.

It is the third day and Abbie is tired of pretending.

* * *

She's shivering from withdrawal on the couch in Corbin's office at the precinct and he's kneeling down next to her, dabbing at the sweat on her forehead with a cool rag.

"Shh," Corbin says, face a picture of concern. "You're gonna be okay, kid."

Abbie stares at him. Her eyes burn with tears. "I don't think I can do this anymore."

Corbin cups her cheek with his hand and Abbie clenches her eyes closed, shaking with a sob.

When she opens her eyes again, the hand is still warm and comforting against her cheek but there is no head on the shoulders in front of her, only a gaping red wound overflowing with blood.

Abbie sits up and she's back in the dollhouse again with her younger self and Jenny crowded over her as the windows around her rattle.

It is a long time before she calms.

* * *

After the fourth day, Abbie stops counting. It doesn't matter anymore.

* * *

She opens her eyes and she is standing in the police archives. Her stomach plummets and her heart seizes. _No_.

Flight instinct takes over and she is grasping at the door handle which is, of course, locked.

"Surely you did not think it would be that simple, did you?"

His voice crawls over her skin, familiar and terrifying in this place. Abbie hides behind her eyelids, her only defense.

"Come now, Lieutenant, sooner or later you will have to turn 'round and face me."

Abbie licks dry, cracked lips but all the moisture has gone from her mouth. She rallies what's left of the fight she has in her and steadfastly does not turn.

There's a sigh behind her, and the scrape of the chair—_his_ chair—being pushed back. It's a sound Abbie has heard so many times before and it breaks something inside of her. His boots click on the floor as he moves towards her, pace almost leisurely.

"After all that you have seen, all you have experienced here, _this_ is what gives you pause?"

The statement hangs in the air. _Some all-powerful demon you are_, Abbie thinks almost snidely since it'd taken him days to come to this.

A rumble of laughter sends her hair standing on end. "Mayhap I was biding my time. Seeing how far I could push you before I truly began to break you."

"Go to hell," Abbie mutters.

"I shall, dear heart, and your soul shall be a fitting prize to present to my master."

And it's the first time it hits her. _Hell_. There was actually a place worse than this.

She gnaws the inside of her cheek so hard that blood pools in her mouth and thinks that there has to be a word for this. A word that goes beyond mere hopelessness, something stronger and more painful than despair, something that isn't a feeling but an existence, something that spans the length and depth of forever.

"I told you before that it does not have to be this way," he goes on, drawing ever closer. Abbie can see the shadow on the wall in front of her. Her hands tremble. "It is this way only because you allow it to be."

Something drops into her pocket and without even reaching a hand in to check, Abbie knows it's the pill bottle. She knows the weight and sound and feel of it in a pocket like she knows the weight of a liquor bottle, like she knows the fading marks on the insides of her arms.

Cardinal sin. If she kills herself, she ends up in hell anyway. Pretty good haul for Moloch either way. No, if he wants to wrap her soul up in a pretty red bow for the Devil, he'll have to do the dirty work himself.

There's a soothing sound behind her. "But it is far, far sweeter to let you destroy yourself, Abbie, to watch you do what you've wanted to do for years." The shadow on the wall towers over her now. "Perhaps I spare you hellfire. Perhaps you could be useful to me."

Useful like Andy? No thanks.

"You are too hasty, Lieutenant. A most unbecoming quality for a policewoman."

"Fuck you." She doesn't mean to say it aloud, but she can't help it.

That earns her another laugh. "You've still some claws in you. Not quite as broken as I would like. We shall remedy that."

Abbie can feel him behind her now. She can smell the shampoo she bought him and the old-books scent that seemed to be embedded in that stupid coat. That smell had used to be a comfort. Now it chokes her, suffocates her more with every breath rattling in her lungs.

"Turn around, Lieutenant. Face me."

Abbie refuses. What, after all, can he do? Torture her some more?

"I can do far worse than that if you insist upon testing me, Miss Mills. My patience grows thin."

Around her, the room shimmers and vanishes. _It's a dream_, she tells herself even as fear miasmas inside of her as inky blackness douses the vision of the archives. _You're in the dollhouse. Moloch can't touch you here. _

Ice cold lips brush the shell of her right ear. "Turn around."

_Remember our bond. I'll come back for you. Have faith._

"Turn around!" he roars, voice layered now with an inhuman growl.

There's a moment then, so brief that it happens between heartbeats that Abbie feels something she hasn't felt once in this place because she realizes that Moloch is _frustrated_. He can't get at her unless she _lets_ him, and it brings a distinct ripple of triumph, one that she cannot savor because pain splits her skull open and she is falling into the darkness.

* * *

Abbie does not wake up in the dollhouse. She stands in the center of the woods surrounding Tarrytown. The forest is covered with fog and the breath Abbie exhales comes out white.

Horse hooves thunder in the distance, beating a cadence into Abbie's heart. She realizes that she can't move; tangles of roots riddled with thorns surround her legs and snake up her torso, binding her arms down and locking her on the spot.

Leaves behind her rustle and Abbie can jerk her head just enough to see figures bursting through the brush. Crane and his wife come tumbling out, both of them bruised and bloody and gasping.

They race towards Abbie and she opens her mouth to call out to them, but her cries go unheard. The Cranes run, hands clasped together, throwing glances behind them where the galloping grows ever louder.

_Run_, Abbie yells as loudly as she can, even though they can't hear her. Katrina's skirts get snagged on the gnarled roots of an overturned tree and Crane frantically rips at the fabric to free her.

"Leave me," Abbie hears Katrina tell him. "He wants me. Only me."

Crane's response is savage. "_Never_."

Katrina urges him to flee and Abbie's nails _claw_ at the roots wrapped round her wrists, but they're as binding as steel. Abbie can do nothing but watch as a pale white horse leaps over the break in the brush and Death, swinging his axe in an arch, cleaves Crane's head from his shoulders in a clean, swift stroke.

Katrina's screams don't drown out her own.

The world around her vanishes and when it reforms, Abbie is in the sewers chained to a wall and this time it is Jenny running, boots kicking up water as she races through the underground labyrinth, Henry Parish's taunting voice ringing through the tunnels like a death knell.

Jenny sprints towards Abbie, towards the wall she's tied to and Abbie watches her sister's face as she realizes that it's a dead end and that Parish—that War is coming closer and closer until his dark figure looms at the other end of the tunnel, sword drawn and eyes red with fury.

Jenny's face crumples, rife with anguish and with terror she'd always tried so hard to hide from Abbie, even when they were kids. And then, she squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, draws her gun and turns to face her death.

Gunshots echo throughout the chamber, ricocheting right off Parish's armor as he stalks closer and closer until he's close enough to plunge his sword right through Jenny. The tip of it rips through her back and stops only inches away from Abbie's heart but it might as well have run her through too, because something in her dies as she watches her sister fall to the ground.

And it goes on and on, visions changing and each presenting a new, horrifying scenario that leaves Abbie more shaken than the last: Crane and Katrina again, Crane tied to a tree and wailing as Parish binds his wife to a stake and burns her alive, Jenny drowning in a river of blood and fire, Irving gripping the bars in his jail cell and screaming for help as Moloch appears behind him bearing his daughter's head, Luke's body ripped in two by the riders' horses, Jenny again clawed to shreds by demons Moloch unleashed, Crane and Jenny alive and well standing over a grave with Abbie's name on it, pale and defeated and alone without her.

And this is worse, so much _worse_ because before, it had only been her past Moloch had tried to twist into bringing her pain and now, it is the thought of the unknown future. These visions could be real or could come to pass—or _had_ come to pass. The apocalypse would sweep unchecked over the globe like a plague and take everything she knew and loved while she rotted to bones in Purgatory, helpless to do anything about it.

And Crane…

As if summoned from her thoughts, he appears before her in the woods again, eyes lifeless and skin waxy and ashen, mumbling her name and clutching her badge in skeletal fingers like it was a crucifix.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry I could not save you. I failed."

And then it all begins again.

* * *

Until one night, when she is lying once more on the musty old bed in the dollhouse, body beaded with sweat and chest tight, throat aching from screaming, cheeks raw from tears, the last of her will leaves her body in a single breath.

Her younger self wipes the sweat from her brow and even she and Jenny have changed over the course of the days, or months, or years. They too look haggard and drawn thin. Abbie's eyes wander over her face, and she parts scabbed lips.

"He can have me," she whispers. "Let him have me."

There's a knock on the dollhouse door. Corbin's voice calls to her from outside. "Abbie? Abbie, let me in!"

A sound forces its way from her throat and fresh tracks of tears coat her cheeks.

"You can't give up," insists Jenny and there are tears in her eyes, too.

She can't do this anymore.

"Abbie," comes the call again, only this time, it's Jenny's voice. "Let me in, Abbie. Open the door."

Abbie begins to sit up. Jenny shoves her back down on the bed. "_No_. You can't give up now. Fight him, Abbie."

She turns her head away. She's so tired.

"Abbie!" Her own voice calls, shaking her shoulder. "You have to fight him, Abbie!"

Dust falls from the ceiling. The floorboards rattle, shaking the plastic furniture and her bed. The banging at the door grows louder. Teenaged Jenny and Abbie call to her, even as they slowly fade away.

The front door slams open.

Abbie closes her eyes.

* * *

She is standing once more in the police station archives. Crane is seated at the desk, making notations in Washington's Bible. This time, Abbie looks at him without reservation.

"Here again, are we?" he says without looking up.

Abbie doesn't respond. She's too tired to even summon words.

"Oh, certainly you can muster up a sentence or two, Lieutenant." And Crane is standing in front of her, without her having seen him rise and approach. "It would please me immensely to hear you say it."

Abbie looks up into his face. It's almost as good as the real thing, only the eyes are darker and without any trace of kindness. Not such a bad thing to see after all that she's seen, his face a last, sweet stop before oblivion. Or hell. Or whatever came next.

Crane smiles fondly, looking down at her. "If only you could see yourself as I see you now, Abigail. The sight would surely drive you mad."

The words blow through her like a breeze, rattling her bones like wind chimes. Abbie is too hollow inside to feel pained. He lifts a hand and presses it against her cheek. The cold doesn't even make her shiver.

"I wonder…" he murmurs, lowering his hand to take hers. He presses something into it—the pill bottle. The walls around her seem to melt, wallpaper peeling down and revealing the lifeless gray plaster of her old bedroom in her foster home, the room Oscar had found her in all those years ago. Suddenly, Abbie wants to laugh.

One last high before the end.

"My gift to you," he says. And then he waits.

Abbie, eyes never leaving his face, pops the cap off the bottle and overturns it into her palm. She feels every single pill that falls into her hand. A lot, but enough for a single swallow.

Crane's eyes glimmer in the gray room, the only source of light left. Abbie raises her palm until her lips brush the edge of it.

_Forgive me_, she thinks to Jenny, to Crane, to the world. _Please forgive me._

She tips her head back and closes her eyes.

And stops.

She can taste the chalk of the first tablet and it explodes over her tongue, but she doesn't let it cross her lips.

There is a light in the corner of the room. A figure stands before it, face too obscured for Abbie to make out. But even in her delirium, she knows that that wasn't there a moment ago.

"End it, Lieutenant," Crane's voice says. But Abbie's transfixed by that light, and she squints. It's something she's seen before, she's sure of it—

"End it _now_." And that's something she's heard before, too, that slight edge of frustration in the demon's voice.

There's no light like that in Purgatory, she thinks. Nothing like it.

Abbie lowers her palm.

Pain explodes in her wrist as Crane smacks it, hard, sending all the pills flying to the ground, and fuck, it _hurts_ but it sends a thrill into her body because that's the first thing she's felt in a long time.

"Foolish, ungrateful wretch!" The voice coming out of Crane's mouth isn't his anymore, but Moloch's. The guise melts off the body before her like wax until Moloch's true form is revealed. He towers over Abbie, roaring in a language she can't make out, but all Abbie can see is that light, so bright and warm.

Hands wrap around her arms and Abbie looks down to see younger Jenny and herself again, pulling her towards it, away from Moloch. She goes willingly, transfixed, allowing herself to be tugged until she can make her feet move. And then, she's _running_.

_Heaven_, she thinks as the light grows brighter, illuminating the gray walls until they shine. As Abbie gets closer to the light and the figure standing before it, she can make out a woman in a long skirt and a hair bonnet and her first instinct is to call out Katrina's name.

But it isn't Katrina waiting for her there.

Abbie stops dead, eyes wandering over a familiar brown face, a face that bears the vaguest resemblance to her mother's. To her own.

"This way," says Grace Dixon, holding up her lantern. "Hurry."

Moloch's howl makes the ground beneath Abbie's feet quake and she doesn't hesitate anymore. Taking a breath, she plunges headfirst into the light, and knows no more.


	2. Part II

**Part II**

* * *

Abbie's eyes fly open and she sucks in a huge breath of air, gasping as she sits up. Leaves rustle and crunch beneath her as she pants, fingers digging into mud. The world around her is dark and damp, tendrils of mist curling in the low-lying places of the woods—woods that are familiar.

The air is clean and crisp and the cool nighttime wind prickles on her skin as she ambles to her feet, feeling light-headed and unsteady, nerves singing with the sensation. Her eyes scan the woods and the fog, heart already filling with dread at what new terror Purgatory has summoned up for her now. Except…

Abbie inhales again. The air isn't stale or empty anymore. She can taste the moisture in it, smell the wood and grass and the hint of autumn on the night wind. She hasn't felt the wind in—

She is no longer in Purgatory.

The thought seems impossible, just one more hopeful meandering conjured up by a mind Moloch had broken. Almost broken. But every part of her instincts say that this isn't Purgatory. These woods are _alive_: Abbie can hear crickets and the buzz of other insects, a bird's cry in the distance. Purgatory was silent, a lifeless approximation of a setting in the real world that bore none of the sensations. Abbie is hyperaware of the wind rustling the trees and blowing her hair, the sound of the leaves being picked up by the breeze, the scent of cedar and spruce…it's _real_.

She clenches her eyes closed and takes a single, choked breath. The woods are still there when she opens them.

Somehow, she'd escaped.

Abbie takes a few steps forward, casting her eyes over everything. She is alone in the woods. No one had opened the portal to free her. How had she gotten out?

Abbie clears her throat. "Crane?" she calls, her voice as rough as gravel. Only the wind answers her. A hand digs through her pocket in search of a cell phone, but the one she pulls out is not hers and _fuck_, she'd forgotten she had traded phones with Crane. Shit. So much for GPS. The weight of her handgun strapped in its holster is a comfort, at least.

She looks up. Through the break in the trees, Abbie can just make out the North Star. The map of Sleepy Hollow unfurls in her mind and Abbie takes to her heels, heading east towards the highway, firmly pushing thoughts of her escape from Purgatory out of her mind. Better to mull over that when she's sure she's safe, or when she's found Crane or Jenny.

It takes her a half hour before she reaches the road. She keeps her ears open for any sound of hooves, but none comes. Small favors, she thinks as her boots hit pavement. She knows the bend in the road well and decides to head south. The closest point to where she stands now is Crane's cabin. Hopefully, someone will be there.

As she rounds the curve, the familiar flicker of red and blue in the distance catches her eye.

_Thank fuck_, she thinks without the slightest bit of guilt, quickening her pace to a jog. Car accidents weren't uncommon on this particular road—people took the turns too hard, especially at night, and it wasn't unusual for the precinct to get multiple calls a month to report accidents. She could get on the horn with dispatch and maybe find out if anyone had seen Crane or her sister, plus get a ride back to the cabin.

The woods are lit up in red and blue, illuminating the scene enough so that when she gets closer, she can make out an ambulance, a fire truck, and two squad cars. It looks like there's only one vehicle involved, though—an overturned SUV. Maybe not so bad an accident.

But as she draws nearer, her stomach twists because the SUV—the jeep—is familiar. It's hers.

_Jenny_.

And then Abbie is racing towards the scene, calling her sister's name until she's close enough to see that the windshield has a gaping, shotgun-sized hole in it and there's blood on the glass and on the pavement. Her heart stops.

Arms catch hers as she tries to cross the yellow tape they've cinched to either squad car, cordoning off the area.

"I'm a cop!" she cries, wrestling the grip on her arms. "That's my car!"

"Let go, it's Mills!" one of the cops—Hadley, she thinks—says and instantly she is freed, dashing under the tape and towards the ambulance.

Both of its doors are open and there, wrapped in a blanket with EMTs standing over her sits Jenny. Abbie skids to a halt and time seems to stop.

A few heartbeats pass and Jenny looks up, eyes locking with Abbie's. And then Abbie is rushing forward and falling into her sister's arms.

* * *

"You know, the EMTs checked me out already," Jenny says even though she holds still while Abbie checks her pulse. "Sorry about your jeep."

"To hell with my jeep. You're sure you're okay?"

"Head hurts. It'd probably feel better if you stopped shining that light in my eyes." Abbie clicks off the flashlight and hands it back to the paramedic.

"The wound on your head looks pretty nasty." The paramedics finish fitting it with butterfly stitches.

"Brush with death will do that to you. Actual Death," Jenny clarifies, looking a little pale.

"The horseman?"

"He's pretty good with a shotgun. Knocked me right off the road. Car flipped. I told your buddies over there that I hit a deer, but I'm not sure they believe me." _Fuck_. Abbie bites her lips. "Guess the Horseman knew I was coming to tell you. Abbie, Parish is—"

"I know."

"What happened on your end? Where's Crane? Did you two get Katrina?"

"Yes, but…" Abbie stops. Her expression must have changed because Jenny suddenly looks stricken.

"Abbie, what happened? Are they…?" When Abbie doesn't respond right away, Jenny reaches out to hold her wrist. Abbie hisses and pulls it back. It feels sprained.

And suddenly—

-_Crane's face but not Crane, reaching out a hand, offering her something and then striking her hand away when she refuses, the jolt of searing pain riddling up her arm_—

"Abbie." Jenny's eyes are wide. "Tell me what happened. Please."

Abbie swallows. "Not…not here. We need to get you to a hospital."

"No," her sister insists. "I'm fine."

Abbie surveys Jenny for a moment before she concedes and turns to wave Officer Hadley down. "Hey Russell! Think you can give us a lift?"

Abbie decides to stick with the original plan of regrouping at the cabin and, after she sorts out a getting a towing company for her jeep and gives Hadley some directions, she bustles Jenny into the back of his car and they take off. Both she and Jenny are silent during the ride, knowing they can't talk in front of Hadley. But a thought that's been niggling at the back of Abbie's mind won't go away.

"Jenny," she says quietly. "What's the date?"

Jenny frowns. "September 22nd."

The same day. It'd only been a few hours. Abbie makes a small noise in the back of her throat and clenches her hands together so Jenny won't see them shaking.

The cabin is dark when Hadley pulls up in front. Call her crazy, but Abbie had been hoping against hope that maybe Crane and Katrina had gotten away.

"Russell," she says, clearing her throat. "When you get back to the station, I need you to put out a BOLO on Ichabod Crane."

Hadley catches her eyes in the rearview, expression grim. "Sure, Lieutenant. We'll find him."

When she and Jenny are safely inside and on the couch, Abbie tells Jenny all that she can remember: her and Crane and Parish opening the portal, entering Purgatory, finding Katrina. And staying behind.

Of course it's that last part that Jenny gets hung up on. Her face twists into raw anger. "He _left_ you there?"

"It was the only way," Abbie says for all the good it does, for there's a storm brewing on Jenny's face. "We needed Katrina out. I chose to stay."

"And _he_ chose to leave you. Oh, I'm gonna kill him."

"Yeah, well," Abbie snaps, suddenly annoyed, "let's hope Parish left something for you to kill."

"Fuck." Jenny's head falls against the sofa back. "The Horseman of War. He must have been waiting for them when the reopened the portal."

Abbie lowers her head in her hands and gathers fistfuls of her hair. She's positively _seething_. The whole goddamn time she'd pranced around with Parish, begging for his help like a goddamn idiot. The clues had been there all along and she, a _Quantico_ candidate, had missed it. She'd more than missed it; she'd given the enemy a perfect opportunity to glean all he could from her and Crane so he could prey on their weaknesses.

And now, Crane and his wife are who the fuck knows where, delivered direct from Purgatory right into a Horseman's hands.

"You asked me the date." Abbie looks up to find Jenny watching her. "Lost track of time in there, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Tell me what it was like," Jenny requests, eyes gentle.

"I don't know," she says honestly, frowning and racking her brain. She plays over the events in her head, but all that's really clear is Crane leaving with Katrina. "I don't remember very much. One minute I was…"

_A plastic house painted in spring colors that Abbie knew every inch of, Jenny's face at thirteen, horrible thunderous sounds rocking the walls just beyond them. A bright, white light. And pain, so much pain—_

"Abbie? Abbs." Jenny's fingers are tight on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Blinking to clear her vision, Abbie nods. "Yeah. It's just…it's all a fog. I can't pin it down."

"It figures that once you'd get out of Purgatory, you'd compartmentalize it," says Jenny, aiming for levity Abbie just doesn't quite feel. "But maybe it's better you don't remember."

Abbie couldn't agree more. There would be plenty of time for that later, after they found Katrina and Crane. "Let's see about getting some food in you. Then, we can plan our next move."

"I'm down for that," Jenny says, grunting as Abbie helps her to her feet. "I'm starving. Do you think Crane has—?"

But whatever Jenny was about to ask is interrupted by three sharp knocks on the door. For a reason Abbie doesn't quite understand, a chill goes through her body at the sound. She's brandished her gun in the blink of an eye.

Crane didn't get visitors, and the only person who knew they were in the cabin at the moment was the officer that dropped them here. Heckles raised, Abbie nods to Jenny who, injuries forgotten, grabs a rifle off the wall, and the two of them stand on either side of the door, waiting.

When the knocks come again, Abbie throws the door open wide.

Behind the business end of her pistol stand three men. Three ordinary-looking strangers in three piece suits that are generally too nice for the gentle people of greater Tarrytown. It's especially strange to see thousand-dollar Armani in the middle of the woods on the porch of Crane's rustic cabin.

The men are of the same age. The one in the center is blond with a squirrel-ish face and a haughty air. The men he's flanked by are only a few inches taller, but their expressions carry vague inclinations of alertness Abbie's come to recognize in the combat-trained. The bald black one on the left is scanning the perimeter, which lets Abbie know that whatever these men were brought along for, it certainly had nothing to do with any threat she or Jenny could pose.

For a long moment, Abbie just stands there, pistol poised. Jenny hasn't lowered her rifle, either. Nobody moves. For all that the bodyguards' expressions don't even flicker, the blond man's look of exasperation grows, and he sighs.

"My, what a way to open a door."

Abbie shakes some hair from her face. "After the kind of night I'm coming off of, you're lucky I didn't just pop one between your eyebrows and go on about my day. Who are you and what do you want?"

"I'm Adam," the man in the center says before motioning over his shoulder. "This is Daniel and Luther, and we wouldn't object to hearing more about the night you've just had, Lieutenant Mills."

When it becomes clear that Abbie's mind has pretty much thrown in the towel, Adam reaches into his breast pocket for a handkerchief. "Perhaps inside? I find the night is growing a little chilly. Maybe we can talk over a warm cup of tea."

Jenny fixes her face the way she always did standing up to bullies in junior high and takes a menacing step forward. "There'll be no tea. And no more talking. It's time for you to go."

Adam regards Jenny with surprise. "You mean to threaten me, don't you?"

Abbie feels her eyebrows knit, gaze bouncing between Adam and Jenny, who looks equally as thrown off.

"How singularly novel," Adam continues, scrutinizing Jenny. "It allows me a completely objective look at how the Witness and her chosen disciples handle what they perceive as threats."

Abbie's gun arm falters. Jenny's doesn't though, and she takes another step forward, barrel level with Adam's chest. The motion doesn't startle Adam—at least that's not what Abbie gets from his expression. He looks momentarily stunned, and the hand holding the handkerchief drops. Something about the way it falls in the shine of the full moon catches Abbie's eye. The red silk flutters and in the corner, she thinks she can make out a symbol stitched in gold threading, something familiar—

And then the moment is gone. Adam's fist clenches around the silk and the motion jolts Abbie like a carnival ride jerking to a halt. She blinks to clear her vision.

"From this encounter, I can gauge the effectiveness of your chosen methodology. A methodology that seems to consist of you clutching a rifle with the safety _on_," Adam continues, tilting his head a little, "and standing regarding your target with a ghastly look of utter confusion."

Jenny licks her lips. "Who the _fuck_—"

"Masons," Abbie feels herself saying. Which is odd, considering she has no idea what prompted that thought. "You're Freemasons, aren't you?"

Jenny takes a decisive step backwards.

Adam's expression becomes triumphant as his eyes fall on Abbie. "Four hundred and ninety seven. Marvelous." He uncurls his fist, exposing the red silk of the handkerchief. Patterned in the corner is a little golden square and compass, small and subtle. Abbie doesn't know how she caught it. "You're rather observant, Lieutenant Mills. Very few would've noticed that."

Crane would've noticed. Abbie doesn't lower her gun. "Now really isn't a good time."

"Purgatory is quite draining on the mind, I understand," replies Adam, eyes actually sympathetic. Abbie blinks. "I ask that you muster your strength, Lieutenant. We will try to be as brief as possible."

Abbie considers Adam, trying to gauge just how much the Masons know. "Whatever it is, it'll have to wait. Crane isn't here."

"Considering he's been effectively captured by the enemy, waiting is precisely the last thing any of us should be doing, don't you think?"

It goes against all her training but Abbie shoots forward, gun faltering. "What do you know about Crane? Do you know where he is?"

"I do not. But," he continues before Abbie's heart even has time to drop fully, "I have some information for you that may help you find him."

In the silence, Abbie regards Adam long and hard. She's raw and unnerved and feeling manic from the last few hours (how could it have only been _hours_ when it had felt so much longer, like years_,_ an _eternity_) and after Parish, Abbie isn't putting a whole lot of faith in trust.

But Crane had trusted the Masons. Attempted poisoning aside—and _fuck_, thinking about it now chokes off Abbie's breath, stuttering her heart. Attempted poisoning aside, Crane believed in the Masons, found allies in them and had been visibly disturbed by their deaths.

Her sister must feel the tension. "We don't have much of a choice," Jenny murmurs at her elbow.

Slowly, Abbie lowers her gun. She takes one step to the side and pushes her back against the door, holding it open. Adam smiles faintly and crosses the threshold.

She looks over at Jenny, who's frowning at the ground. "Did he call me your _disciple_?"

* * *

Luther—the big one—makes them tea. Abbie watches the Mason putter around Crane's kitchen, cool as you please as he opens cabinets and removes mugs. Adam settles into Crane's usual chair and beckons Abbie and Jenny to join him at the table.

Adam catches Abbie glancing towards the door, where he's left the second of his two companions just outside. "Daniel is going to ensure that we aren't disturbed."

"Disturbed," Jenny repeats. "Disturbed by _what_, exactly?"

"Disturbances," Adam replies primly, and the look on Jenny's face is the first time since getting out of Purgatory Abbie has wanted to smile. Adam surveys the two of them. "Such a messy business this is, for all of us."

Jenny drums her fingers on the table. "So. Masons. I guess beheading isn't what it used to be."

"Surely you did not think that Death slaughtered the entirety of our number that night?" Adam says, arching an eyebrow.

That brings Abbie to her first question. "Why haven't you shown up before now? We could've really done with some assistance."

"We do our best work off the battlefield, as it were."

"Read: _chickenshit_," Jenny mumbles, just loud enough for Abbie to hear. She kicks her sister under the table.

Adam ignores her and removes a small, leather bound notebook from his jacket pocket. He flips a few pages and launches into a rather cerebral summarizing of the last twenty-four hours. Even though Abbie feels that she put two and two together after what she'd seen in Purgatory, she sits back and listens to the recounting, which Jenny is absorbing with wide eyes.

What it basically comes down to is that you apparently _don't_ trust a guy who eats sins for a living.

When he's finished, Adam allows them both a few moments to digest the new information. Particularly that Henry Parish's real name is Jeremy. If it's possible, Abbie feels even more dejected than she had in the minutes prior to the Masons calling.

"How exactly is Parish Crane's kid, though?" Jenny inquires baldly, looking between Adam and Abbie. "Didn't Katrina's coven end him a few centuries back?"

"As we understand it, he had indeed been neutralized until a bargain with a demon set him free."

Jenny sits back in her chair. "So…that day in the woods," she hedges, turning her face towards Abbie. "That's what we saw."

Adam's eyes go just the slightest bit kinder though his words are grave. "There isn't time to let this sting; rescuing Crane is our top priority. If a Witness is lost, the world may very well follow."

Jenny brushes her hair out of her face. "Okay. Assuming that Henry or Jeremy or whatever the _fuck_ you want to call him kept up the façade when they got out of Purgatory, the next part of the plan was to get Katrina to the place War would have been resurrected. Parish would have needed to go there anyway, to break the seal and assume his mantle. We start there. Hey," Jenny says sharply when Abbie doesn't respond, reaching over to touch her elbow. "We'll find them, Abbs. We're gonna find them."

Abbie swallows. Her throat is sandpaper dry. "We've lost time. Parish is probably long gone by now."

"Then we start there and turn over every stone on the eastern seaboard until we find them," Jenny adds, voice strong for Abbie's sake. "We'll figure it out."

Adam nods. "And you are better equipped to do so than you may know. That brings me to the purpose of my visit. One of the responsibilities of the Masonry is monitoring the use of magic," he continues, adopting a more businesslike tone. "We search out all practitioners in the country and keep a detailed log of their abilities and their ancestry so that we may better trace magic through the years."

"So you knew Parish was an actual warlock?" Jenny asks.

"We became aware of his unique abilities and added him to our logs a decade ago, though we were unaware of his true identity until quite recently."

Jenny looks thoroughly unimpressed as she folds her arms under her chest. "Well aren't you boys doing just a cracker-jack job?"

Adam ignores her, eyes still fixed on Abbie. "We have identified a total of four hundred and ninety-six witches and warlocks alive in North America at present. Today, that number was increased to four hundred and ninety-seven."

Abbie thinks about it. "When Katrina was freed from Purgatory."

"We have been aware of Katrina Crane for centuries, and she remained in our sights even while she was in Purgatory. She is not whom I speak of."

Adam is smiling. And just like that, it strikes Abbie like a thunderbolt and steals all the breath from her lungs. He doesn't mean…he _can't_ mean…

"No."

"Yes," says Adam.

In the end, Jenny says it for her, with wide eyes as she shoots forward in her chair. "Abbie's a _witch_?"

"One with tremendous potential," Adam goes on. "You are the first of your kind whose magic facilitated an escape from Purgatory. No witch before you has ever accomplished it without significant outside help."

All Abbie can do is stare. She doesn't even know _how_ she got out of Purgatory. "I can't be a…I've never done any kind of magic."

"Oh? Your escape from Lachlan Fredricks' ancestral home says otherwise," Adam says blithely.

"But that wasn't me. Grace Dixon came to me in a vision and showed me the way."

"That is because you summoned her," Adam explains. "A specter only you could see that led you from room to room to the clues you needed to escape." Abbie's mouth goes dry. "Retrocognition is a common talent of many witches and one that your ancestor herself was proficient in. It is Grace Dixon you have to thank for the gifts you possess."

When Abbie doesn't respond, Adam frowns. "Surely you have surmised that your ancestor was a witch before now? The head of house for Lachlan Fredricks, a prominent member of Katrina Crane's coven? He would have allowed no other the responsibility of presiding over the household that was a safe haven for so many."

Silence settles over the table like a cold mist, making Abbie's ears ring. She turns over her palms where they've fallen uselessly on her lap and looks at the lines grooved into flesh, half-expecting to see a difference.

The whistle of the tea kettle draws her eyes to the movement in the kitchen. Luther, with care, is pouring out three mugs before gathering them together in one beefy hand, walking them over to the table and placing a mug in front of Abbie, who is certain she's gone paralyzed.

"Thank you, Luther," Adam says cordially, taking a delicate little sniff and sipping.

Abbie watches him, trying to summon words. "I don't feel any different."

"It is very likely that you won't right away. Though the potential is there, your powers are still weak."

Jenny holds up a finger. "Question. Abbie and I are both descended from Grace Dixon. Does that mean I'm a witch, too?"

"Not necessarily, I'm afraid," he replies, stirring his tea.

Jenny's face falls. "Why not?"

"Weakened bloodlines." Jenny looks like she takes it personally and Adam adopts a more delicate tone as he clarifies, "Occurrences of natural magic inherited from a single practicing ancestor over so many generations of dormancy are incredibly rare. There've only been seven cases like the lieutenant's in two centuries."

"That you know of," Jenny barbs.

"Our knowledge is quite thorough. The traces of magic in your sister's blood may have also been able to manifest due to some correlation with her responsibilities as a Witness that we simply do not understand. It is unlikely that you will show full signs." Adam pauses. "There have been other effects on descendants of occultists, however."

Jenny leans forward. "Have there?"

"Oh, yes," he intones before lifting his mug to his mouth.

Abbie decides that Adam's a smooth son of a bitch. He's got Jenny and he knows he's got her, too, because he waits. It's a calculated move.

Eventually, Jenny's impatience gets the better of her. "And?" she demands. "What are the effects?"

"There are quite a variety," Adam says. _Preens_, really. "The most common cases—although it's fairly redundant to state at this juncture—are those that present a sensitivity to paranormal activity. Many descendants boast excellent general health; there are documented cases of above-average immunological response and regeneration from moderate-to-severe injuries."

Abbie blinks and turns to her sister. "Just how bad was that car crash, exactly?"

"This all sounds basic," Jenny dismisses. "Any reports of proper powers?"

"There have been instances of what you might call telekinesis." Jenny's whole face brightens. "In the cases we've documented, these episodes were infrequent and quite involuntary. None affected reported any ability to control these fledgling powers."

"Yet," Jenny says almost absently, eyes distant and full to the brim with possibilities.

Silence falls again. Abbie supposes that in the grand scheme of things, it isn't the most far-fetched thing she's come across since running into Crane. The sick kid from Roanoke who'd somehow bypassed the laws of dimensional time and space had been fun. And of course there's always Andy and his fatal case of undead. This is one of the few positive supernatural things that's happened. She's free of Moloch, she's got her sister, she's armed, and now she's got more power than even that, apparently. She can handle this.

Abbie lifts her head and wets her dry lips. "Okay," she says with forced calm. "I'm a witch. What do I do now? What's next?"

"Ollivander's?" Jenny suggests with the cheekiest smirk Abbie's ever seen in her life.

Abbie gives her a withering look. "You are such a _dick_."

"I'm certain I don't need to explain how imperative it is that you develop your talents," Adam says, removing his handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab at his mouth.

"That imperative better come with some kind of how-to guide because I'm drawing a blank," Abbie returns.

"All the more reason that we locate the Cranes. Katrina Crane can assist you in developing your magic. As for what to do next, I believe your sister was right: the best place to start looking would be where War was to take form. And while your powers are still weak, they _are_ there. They and your connection to your fellow Witness will give you a fighting chance."

"And I don't suppose you and your frat house wanna accompany us on our romp through the woods," Jenny states.

"As I said, we do our best work behind the scenes. There are other matters that require our attention. I am sorry, but you both are on your own," he adds with surprisingly genuine contrition. Adam rises. "And now, we must depart. I wish you both the best of luck. The fate of the world rests in your hands."

Jenny scoffs. "Yeah, no pressure."

"Wait," Abbie calls, getting up from her chair. Adam turns. "If you know as much as you claim to, then you have to know what happened to Captain Irving."

Adam inclines his head. "We are aware."

"If we're gonna do this—fight the apocalypse, I mean—we're not going to be able to do it on our own. Frank Irving was one of our best allies. He had access to resources and manpower and he's the only other person who really understands what it is we're fighting. We need him back."

Adam arches an eyebrow. "Your captain confessed to crimes he didn't commit. He's awaiting trial in Albany."

"So do something about it." Adam's eyebrows fly into his hairline. Abbie purses her lips. "You know as well as I do that he didn't kill those people. We can't lose him to this."

"Lieutenant, I think you overestimate the reach of the Masonry."

"Do I?" Abbie fires back. "Do I _really_?"

Adam stares at her for a long, silent moment, then bows his head. "I make no guarantees, but I will see what can be done. Oh, and before I forget…" Adam digs a hand into his pocket. Abbie catches a flash of gold before he sends it arcing into the air towards her. She reaches out and catches it—a small amulet on a cord of braided gold. It bears some resemblance to the one Katrina had given her in Purgatory.

Abbie looks back up at Adam. "It belonged to Grace. As far as we can tell, the item holds no magical significance. But perhaps it will be of use to you. Farewell."

When the door is closed and she and Jenny are alone again, she looks over at her sister. There is more color in her face than Abbie had seen an hour ago.

"We'll go at first light," Abbie decides, tucking the amulet into her pocket for now. "You take the shower first. I'll see what Crane has to eat in this place."

After Jenny has disappeared into the bathroom, Abbie finds enough in the cabinets to make what will pass for Mac and cheese. She sets a pot of water on the range to boil and the pipes in the cabin begin to hum when Jenny turns on the water in the bathroom. Abbie fishes through the cabinets, looking for dining ware and trying to shove down how _wrong_ it feels to be here without Crane beside her. Then, it strikes that some time ago, this cabin became Crane's and not Corbin's any more.

Her eyes fall to the table she had just been seated at. In her mind's eye she sees Corbin in one seat and Andy in another, both of them bathed in unnatural sunlight scooping up forkfuls of apple pie and watch her with vaguely menacing eyes.

Abbie's eyes clench closed and suddenly, there is not enough air in the room. She crosses to the living room, turning her back on the table and bracing herself up on the mantle, trying to calm her racing heart.

"C'mon, Mills," she murmurs in the silence. "Get it together."

When her breathing has slowed, Abbie lifts her eyes and scans the mantle. She and Crane had taken down the photographs Corbin had kept there months ago and there are new trinkets in place, items she and Crane had come across in their research. Propped up between a stack of books and a little golden spyglass, Abbie sees something familiar: a soot-colored doll with a mouth of thread.

Twenty minutes later, the floorboards creak and Jenny emerges from the house to find Abbie slumped on the bench on the porch outside, head in her hands.

"Water's boiling," she announces, looking out at the pond. The moon hangs swollen and white in the sky, casting an ethereal glow on the rippling water. "There were noodles on the counter. I put 'em in the pot."

"Thanks," Abbie murmurs, thumb absently brushing across the head of the doll.

"That the golem?" Jenny makes a face. "You know, I'm starting to see why Henry turned out the way he did. A thing like that is just asking for Satan to turn your kid into Regan MacNeil."

Abbie smirks in spite of herself. "You are the last person who gets to say anything about Regan MacNeil."

"What are you doing with that thing?"

Abbie turns the doll over in her hands. "This belonged to Crane's son."

"And you're, what, trying to locate him through it?"

Abbie snorts. "Something like that."

Jenny looks at her expectantly. "And? Do you feel anything?"

"Not a goddamn thing," Abbie mutters, tossing the doll aside and pinching the bridge of her nose. Jenny lowers herself on the bench next to Abbie, digging a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket. Abbie watches her out of the corner of her eyes. "Still doing that, huh?"

"Only when stressed." Jenny pauses before lighting one. "Which is basically all the time now."

"Those things'll kill you."

"I've got a bet going to see what'll get to me first: Moloch or the Marlboros. Guess which side my money's on," she adds dryly.

Abbie finds herself smiling again. "Put me down for fifty." She and Jenny sit in amiable silence for a few minutes.

"So," Jenny says almost conversationally, taking another drag of her cigarette, "the Horseman of Death is the dude who was with Katrina before Crane stole her."

"You make it sound like he made off in the night with somebody's rug. They fell in love and Katrina left Abraham."

"Which he's clearly not salty about at _all_. So that's one. And now, here's the Horseman of War who just happens to be their son."

Abbie's eyes flit to her sister. "Jenny."

"I'm just saying," Jenny continues, holding up her hands. "If Famine turns out to be a guy Crane pushed into a well in 1765 or something, I'm done. These people are bad luck."

"Yeah, well, our family isn't a fountain of good fortune either."

"Our family has the decency to get dead and _stay_ dead, though. So far anyway."

"Thanks for putting that thought into the universe."

"That's what I'm here for." Jenny flicks the cigarette off the porch. "How are you holding up, Miss Witch?"

"I'm good."

Jenny lifts one eyebrow. "Abbie, c'mon."

Abbie sighs. "You know what I'm thinking? For the past year I've gone to bed looking up at that sky and waiting for some…I don't know, some kind of sign to tell me what the hell it is I'm supposed to actually be _doing_."

"General mission statement of thwarting all evil isn't good enough for you?"

"It'd be nice to have some warning and better leads, more than a few words hidden in ancient books that Crane and I have to race against time to find before everything goes to hell."

"You're saying you want evil to Tweet you every time something diabolical is about to go down," Jenny deadpans. "You are an entitled little Witness, aren't you? Capital E."

Abbie knocks the back of her head against the wall. "Could you just let me get this out?" Jenny rolls her eyes and makes a gallant little gesture with her hand. Abbie gathers her thoughts. "I guess I was waiting for something to tell me that we're not in this alone. That there's some reason that the powers that be thought I was the right one for the job. And I used to look up at that sky at night and wait for an answer."

"All right," Jenny says at length. "You wanted to know why."

"And now," Abbie continues wryly, rolling her head to look at Jenny, "I'm a witch."

"'And I will give _power_ unto my Witnesses'," Jenny recites in a way that makes Abbie shiver. "It's an apocalypse and so far, only one side has had a supernatural advantage. Fair is fair."

"It's more than that," Abbie murmurs. The weight of Grace Dixon's amulet rests heavy in her pocket. She closes her eyes and an image flashes behind them—an ocean of blood and fire, the demon's roar shaking the walls around her, an absence of all thought except that whatever came next was going to be worse.

Abbie opens her eyes. The sight of the woods around the cabin offer her little comfort. "It's real," she says softly, even though she can't really explain it. But before now, there'd still been a sense of the abstract when she thought about the apocalypse, about what it truly meant to be fighting evil. Now, she knows what's waiting for them all if they fail. "We have to win this, Jenny. Even if it kills us. There's no other option."

"Jesus," Jenny breathes. "What the hell happened to you in Purgatory, Abbie?"

"If we're going to do this, we need help. Someone who knows how to fight. Someone we can trust."

At first, Jenny doesn't look like she's gonna let it go. Abbie watches as she sits back and clears her throat. "Who, though? The only other person we had in the know was Irving. We're dealing with forces of evil that nobody is going to believe exists."

Abbie stifles a small sigh of relief and thinks about it. She digs the old cell phone out of her pocket and scrolls through the contacts. An idea strikes her and she selects the name. "We'll just have to make them believe it."


	3. Part III

**PART III**

* * *

"I still think this is a lousy idea," Jenny grunts, crossing her legs and rocking her foot back and forth.

"And I'm still waiting for you to come up with a better one," Abbie replies.

"I don't like cops."

"You like Irving."

Jenny opens her mouth, then closes it. A moment passes and she opens it again. "That's different."

Abbie gives her sister a sardonic thumbs-up. "Smooth. Real smooth."

"What's to keep this guy from running back to the department and telling them that we're insane?"

"Concrete proof, I'd imagine."

"Which is something we have just lying around here in abundance."

"Witch, remember?" Abbie replies. "I'll…I don't know, set something on fire."

"Abbie, you can barely operate the DVR. No offense, but this whole magic thing would've been so much more appropriate on me."

"Don't hate the player," Abbie chirps just before there's a knock at the door.

Jenny reaches out and catches her wrist. "Maybe giving him the whole story isn't a good idea."

"The congregation gets the message, Sister Jennifer: cops don't float your boat."

"It's not about that. We trusted Parish too, remember?" Jenny gives her a level look. "We can't trust anybody, not right now, not when we're this vulnerable."

The truth in those words weighs heavy on Abbie's shoulders. A second knock reverberates through the living room. Abbie nods, and Jenny drops her hand.

Early morning sun floods the cabin when Abbie pulls open the door, momentarily obscuring his face. "Abbie."

"Morning, Luke," she says, beckoning him inside. "Thanks for coming."

"I couldn't not come after the message you left me last night," Luke replies, worry plain on his face. "You sounded weird on the phone. You okay?"

"Yep," Abbie says with a horridly false smile.

"I heard about Crane. It's all over the radio." Luke looks her up and down. "That's why you called me, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck, wondering how exactly she's gonna explain this all to him without telling him the truth. She's never liked lying to Luke, even though this certainly wouldn't be the first time.

"Hey," he says with a warm voice. "We'll find him. It shouldn't be too hard, what with that coat and all. He'll stick out like a sore thumb."

Abbie takes a deep breath. "The thing is, we may have a lead."

"We?" Luke frowns. Over on the sofa, Jenny wiggles a few fingers. Luke raises his eyebrows. "Your sister's lending a hand? Willingly?"

"C'mon Morales, you know I'm all about that team spirit."

Sleepy Hollow PD is well-acquainted with Jenny's antics having hauled her in a few times years ago and after Irving had called her in to help when they'd wrangled Death up in the sewers, she'd made a bit of a name for herself at the precinct. Abbie couldn't have imagined how things could get any worse, until the day she and Luke had crossed paths.

After Jenny learned that Abbie and Luke were once a thing, it'd pretty much been open season between them ever since.

"You look well for somebody shaking off a car accident," says Luke. "Hadley and Wang told me how mangled up the jeep was."

"Can't very well leave the search and rescue up to the department, now can we? Crane's chances are bad enough as it is."

Luke doesn't take the bait. He turns his gaze back on Abbie and Abbie knows that look. That's Luke's 'are-you-absolutely-sure-about-this-because-I-think-you've-lost-your-shit' look. "You said you have a lead. A lead that the rest of the force isn't in on?"

"This isn't something we can bring to them," Abbie says delicately. "Something we have to check out on our own."

Luke's frown deepens. "This doesn't sound good."

"I need you to trust me on this, Luke."

"You want me to trust you? I want the whole story. Abbie," he adds when she doesn't reply. "Come on. Wouldn't you, in my place?"

_Shit_. "Look, there's something you don't know about Crane." In the corner of her eye, Abbie can see her sister tense. "He's—he's got a wife."

Luke's face goes blank. "A wife."

"Her name's Katrina. It's only kind of recently we found out she was even alive. They got separated a few years back. For a while, Crane didn't know where she was or what happened to her, but we found her. Yesterday. Katrina's been…on the run."

"On the run?" Luke repeats, eyes narrowing. "Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"She hasn't done anything wrong," Abbie quickly amends. "But there are people after her. Dangerous people. And now, she and Crane are both missing."

Luke digests that. "So you think the people after her are also after Crane."

"Yes."

"But she didn't do anything wrong."

"She's got information," Jenny pipes up. "Sort of like a material witness."

"Uh-huh." Luke looks down at Abbie. "So we need an APB out on Mrs. Crane. She dressed like a Renaissance carnie, too?"

"That's the thing," says Abbie. "It's better if people don't know that she's in town." She was pretty sure Moloch knew Katrina was free, but on the off chance that Parish didn't have her already, there was no reason to let the information out there. It'd only make it that much easier for Abraham.

Luke doesn't look pleased at that at all. "And your lead?"

"I know where Katrina and Crane were going. Where they were supposed to be last."

"But you don't want to tell the rest of the department."

"I know it sounds crazy."

"Oh we passed crazy a long time ago, Abbie."

She decides to play her trump card. "You're the only person I trust with this. I need you, Luke. Please."

"Need me for _what_? Moral support?"

"Comic relief, actually," Jenny trills from behind them. "I was thinking about what kind of joke would lighten the mood as Abbie and I go traipsing off into the forest and your face was the first thing that popped into my head."

Luke doesn't even miss a beat. "Isn't there some psych ward missing its prized inmate right about now?"

"Sleepy Hollow PD certainly isn't missing a prized detective though, are they?"

"For Christ's sake, y'all, _damn_," Abbie snaps, raking her fingers through her hair. "Look. Crane and his wife are in trouble and I'm going to find them, with or without your help. It's gonna be dangerous and it'd be nice to have somebody I trust watching my six. But I'm not going to force you and we're wasting daylight. So are you in or not?"

Luke surveys her in silence, expression unreadable. He's never been a fan of ultimatums and it's incredibly unfair of her to do this to him. But she holds his gaze steadily, and knows what his answer will be before he even opens his mouth.

"If I do this," he begins firmly, "I want the whole story after we find them. I'm tired of not knowing what's going on around here. Deal?"

"Deal."

Jenny rises from the couch. "Fan-fucking-tastic. Let's roll." She grabs the shotgun off the dinner table and slings it over her back, snorting as she passes Luke on her way to the door. "Moral support. Pfft. We need your damn car."

* * *

"You sure you don't want to turn on TomTom for this?" Luke inquires as he makes a left off the highway, onto the road that will lead them into the woods.

"I'm sure," says Abbie.

"All right. If you get us lost, you owe me dinner."

"I know where we're going. Promise." It'd be a real miracle if Abbie ever forgot that place in the woods. It's burned into her memory. That was the day everything had changed. And even if she forgot, Jenny definitely knew the way.

Abbie's eyes flick to the rearview. Jenny's been surprisingly quiet in the backseat, loading first her shotgun, then Abbie's pistol. She wonders if her sister is as unsettled about returning to that place as she is.

Luke follows Abbie's gaze. "We expecting trouble?"

"Always expect trouble," retorts Jenny.

"Is it possible Crane and his wife would still be together, or would the people that are after them want them separated?"

"Probably the latter." Whatever Parish's plans, Abbie thought it unlikely that he'd keep two of his hostages in the same place. Unless War was an utterly shit tactician.

Luke nods. "What's she look like? So I know what to look for."

"Long red hair. Blue eyes. British. And yes, wearing old-timey clothes like Crane."

"Weird people," Luke mutters, shaking his head. He gives Abbie a sidelong look. "Surprised to hear he's married, though. I thought for sure that he—"

"Go right here," Abbie interrupts. Whatever loomed at the end of that sentence couldn't have been good. "We're almost there."

"You sure you're okay, Abbie?" Luke asks. "You look like you had a really rough night."

In the backseat, Jenny snorts. Abbie rubs a temple. "Didn't sleep very well."

"I remember your nightmares," Luke murmurs, words tinged with compassion. That's one thing Luke had always done very well; even if he didn't fully understand, there was always a steady chest to press her head into when the world was too much. A part of Abbie dearly misses that.

But she doubts even the comforting circle of someone else's arms would help at this point.

Jenny's voice stirs Abbie from her thoughts. "We're here."

Luke's brow furrows as he takes in the surroundings. "This? You sure?"

"Positive," Abbie says, and Luke puts the car in park.

Jenny cocks her shotgun and jumps out the backseat, Luke following. Sucking in a deep breath, Abbie pushes the car door open.

She hasn't come to this part of the woods in years. For a while there, she hadn't been able to venture even the shortest distance from the highway. Even spending the last ten years firmly entrenched in denial, it had done nothing for the feeling that swept over her any time she got near here.

Now, somehow, the dread seems muted. Maybe it's because she isn't alone or that she's too focused on finding Crane and Katrina. Or maybe because any fear she feels now pales in comparison to those few hours in Purgatory. Even though the memory of it is still blurry, one thing Abbie can remember is the paralyzing fear. Nothing in the real world had ever made her feel like that.

The four white trees are nowhere to be seen. Abbie takes her pistol from Jenny and slowly, the three of them make their way to the clearing where it all began. Sunlight drips through the break in the trees overhead, casting the space in an ethereal glow. Around them, the woods are still but not silent; wind is rustling the fallen leaves and cicadas call out to one another, making the forest hum.

Abbie moves towards the dead bush that partially obscured Moloch when he'd risen from the ground. It'd never bloomed. Luke follows her.

"You two sure this is the spot?"

Jenny lowers her gun. "Ask if we're sure one more time, Morales. I dare you."

"There's nothing here!"

Abbie steps gingerly over the ground, half-expecting it to open up and suck her down below the earth. Luke isn't wrong—the clearing is empty. But it wasn't a handful of hours ago.

"There's nothing here now," she announces, "but there was."

There are footprints on the ground around the clearing, most too messy to see clearly, but definitely there. Abbie points them out and Luke drops to his haunches, examining the marks in the ground which is soft and damp with dew from the wispy grass. "Looks like the tracks come from the north."

The place where she and Crane had first opened the portal has to have been less than a kilometer away.

"So they did come this way after," Jenny says softly enough that Luke can't hear. "And look, the tracks go to those trees and just stop."

Abbie makes her way over to the line of trees, dead just like everything else in this clearing. The tracks do stop there, only a few paces away. She runs her hand along the trunk of the tree nearest to her, eyes tracing over every inch of lifeless bark until her fingers find something curious.

"Jenny. Look." Four straight lines are grooved into the wood. When Jenny looks closer, Abbie splays out her hand and curls her fingers, gently dragging them along the lines.

Jenny makes a sound. "Nail marks. Someone was tied to this tree."

Heart beating unevenly in her chest, Abbie returns her eyes to the ground. She can't help but suck in a short breath when, several feet away, her eyes come across new tracks in the mud.

"Son of a _bitch_," Jenny mutters.

"Are those…" Luke squints. "Hooves? Wait. That horseman Irving always talked about. You don't think…?"

Jenny holds her shotgun at the ready. "I say we follow them."

"You're saying that this _horseman_ is what's after Crane's wife?"

"Whole story after," Jenny reminds him, jerking her head towards the trail of tracks. "Let's move. We're already hours behind. Abbie?"

Abbie's eyes are fixed on the ground. Something niggles at the back of her head. She lowers herself to her knees, carding her fingers through the dirt.

"Abbie, come on! There's nothing here and the trail's getting colder the longer we hang around!"

Suddenly, Abbie rises to her feet but she has no intention of following Jenny and Luke. She digs a dirt-encrusted hand into her jacket pocket for her phone, flips it open and dials her own number.

"Abbie?" Jenny hedges, eyes narrowing.

In her ear, the phone beeps and upon examination, she finds that she has no bars. "Stupid fucking dinosaur of a phone," Abbie hisses, pressing redial and holding it up into the air. She swears, the minute she finds Crane she's getting him the latest smart phone on the market. Apple can have all her goddamn money.

"Abbie," Jenny repeats, clearly puzzled.

The phone beeps again and it takes all Abbie's strength not to throw it. "Somebody give me their cell. Now!" she snaps when Luke and Jenny stare at her blankly.

Luke gets to his first. She yanks it out of his hand. He's got two bars. Rapidly, Abbie punches in her number again and stares at the screen as it dials.

"Abbs?" Luke says this time, eyebrows raised. "What are you doing?"

"Shh!" she growls, holding up a hand. "Don't move, don't speak—don't even breathe."

When the call connects, Abbie bites her tongue. She closes her eyes and waits. Thirty seconds pass, thirty seconds that feel like absolute agony.

And then, something reaches her ears. It's faint, so faint that the singing cicadas nearly drown out the sound, but it's _there_ and suddenly Abbie can breathe again.

She looks up. Jenny's eyes are wide. Luke's are narrowed. "Is that…?"

"Holy shit," Jenny says, and three pairs of eyes fall to the ground beneath their feet.

* * *

In the minutes following, Jenny talks Luke out of calling 911 or alerting the department even though he's pacing like a crazy person and yelling about bulldozers and cranes. In the end Jenny wins and Luke gets in his car and heads into town, promising to be back within thirty minutes.

All of this registers only peripherally for Abbie, background static overwhelmed by the ringing in her ears and the thundering of her heart. The moment they'd realized what they heard, she'd fallen to her knees on the ground and began to scrape away handfuls of dirt. When Luke's car takes off, Jenny joins her.

And for a long while, that's all Abbie knows: the cold earth sliding between her fingers and collecting under her fingernails, dampening the knees of her DKNY jeans and ruining her boots. Handful by handful she scrapes and claws at the ground like a thing possessed, all the thoughts in her mind coalescing into a single, focused goal.

"How did you know, Abbie?" Jenny is asking as they move layer upon layer of dirt.

She doesn't reply. She works at the earth beneath her hands until she's elbow deep in mud and grass and rocks. She stops only to redial her number on Jenny's cell if the call drops.

Fifteen minutes later, Luke returns, hurriedly popping the trunk of his car and brandishing shovels, a couple gallons of water and a first aid kit. Abbie doesn't waste a second when the shovel is in her hand. She goes right back to it, kicking the blade into the ground and hoisting out dirt.

Gradually, the volume of the ringtone increases. Within thirty minutes of the digging, Abbie can make out the words to the song clearly.

"Don't think," Jenny huffs, lifting another shovel to the side before attacking the ground again, "that you and I aren't gonna have words about my ringtone being a fucking Bon Jovi song."

"Least you got an actual song," Luke grunts. "She's got my calls set to one of the bland default jingles."

"Be less boring, maybe," Jenny returns without acid.

Sweat is on a slow roll down her back and at her temples despite the crisp temperature. Abbie pauses a moment to rip her jacket off. The hole is hip-deep now. They have to be getting close.

Another twenty minutes pass. Abbie's arms are burning but she doesn't stop.

"This is ridiculous," Luke mutters, tossing another shovelful aside. "We could have an excavation team out here in less time than it'd take us to—"

The words are lost to the heavy clang of his shovel hitting something solid. Adrenalin floods Abbie's system and she attacks even more vigorously until yellowing pine is visible. Bon Jovi screams from the bottle of the hole.

They haven't even fully uncovered the coffin before Abbie is leaping down into the hole, sweeping the soil aside with broad strokes of her arms, ignoring Jenny and Luke calling her from the surface. The pine box looks ancient. And airless.

Her fingernails slide under the lid and she lifts with all the force she can muster. It doesn't budge. Eyes fly over the top of the box and find several pinpricks dotting the edge.

"Nailed shut," she hears Jenny say.

"I've got a crowbar in the trunk." Luke disappears from view, but Abbie doesn't wait on him.

Digging her fingers under the lid again, she pulls. She pulls and pulls and pulls, heedless of the splinters sending sharp spikes of pain through her hands.

"Abbie, he's coming with the crowbar!"

But she's single-minded. _Hours_, is all she can think, fingers scrabbling frantically. Hours without light, or sound, or air. Another minute in that box was too long, unbearable, she has to get this damn thing _open_.

A sound like a sonic boom bursts in the small space, throwing Abbie backwards hard on her tailbone, making her cry out.

"Abbie!" Jenny's voice sounds faraway behind the furious ringing in her ears.

"M'okay," Abbie says, shaking her head to clear it. When she looks down at the pine box again, twelve nails are rolling to a stop on the lid, the holes they had occupied empty.

Abbie pushes the lid and it slides away easily. Her heart jumps into her throat.

"Oh my god," comes Jenny's voice above her head. "Morales, the first aid kit! Hurry!"

Abbie scrambles on top of the box, fingers flying to Crane's neck for a pulse. A pulse that isn't there. Time seems to stop.

Her head falls to his chest. Not moving. She goes ice cold. Then, she goes numb.

Instincts take over and she's lacing her hands together and pumping in a motion that she's done a million times before. She counts the compressions in her head before dropping her lips to his, forcing breath through. His chest rises and falls.

She's halfway through the second round of compressions when the first aid box lands next to her. It is eerily silent overhead; Luke and Jenny seem to be holding their breaths. Or maybe they are talking and Abbie just can't hear them.

She lowers her face to give him another breath. Again, his chest rises and falls.

_I swear to God_, she thinks as she starts the compressions again. _I swear to God if you don't fucking breathe._

Another breath. His lips are ice cold. Voices fly over her head.

"—not breathing, he's not breathing—"

"—calling 911, fuck this—"

And suddenly she's back in Purgatory, watching the life leave Crane's eyes while she begs and pleads and curses and prays, and Moloch laughs and laughs

The fingers Abbie laces together are growing numb. She digs them into his chest hard and thinks absently that this has to hurt, that it's going to leave bruises and _good_, she wants it to hurt and she wants him to feel it, she wants it to hurt so badly that the pain supersedes unconsciousness but it's not mere unconsciousness, he isn't breathing and what is she going to do if he doesn't wake up. He _has_ to wake up, he can't do this to her after everything they've been through, it cannot happen like this, he doesn't fucking _get_ to do this to her—

Dirty fingers pinch his nose. Abbie seals their lips together and blows.

A great whoosh of air startles her into sitting upright, watching as the body underneath her seizes with a deep, rattling gasp. Blue eyes flash open and instantly, they find hers.

"_Katrina_."


	4. Part VI

**PART IV**

* * *

In the time it takes Abbie to pull Crane forward so he's sitting upright, Luke's saying "False alarm," into the phone and passing along his badge number to the dispatcher. Jenny drops into the hole next to Abbie, bearing one of the jugs of water. Abbie's fingers are pressed beneath the hard line of Crane's jaw. His pulse is thready, but there.

Jenny lifts the jug and Crane drinks greedily for five seconds straight. He's still panting when he's finished, but his eyes seek Abbie's out. His pupils are blown in the bright light of the sun and it takes him a minute to focus.

"Abbie," he rasps, reaching out for her hands. "Abbie."

"Are you hurt?" she demands. She wants to examine his body for wounds but he won't let go of her hands.

"I did not think I would see you again."

"Ditto," Abbie mumbles through the lump in her throat.

"How did you escape Purgatory?"

"Someone left a door open," Abbie murmurs, unable to suppress her smile. Crane's skin is clammy. "You okay?"

He nods, searching her face. "How long?"

"Twelve hours, give or take," Jenny says.

Abbie takes a deep breath. "Where's Katrina?"

"I…Abraham. He…" A shudder passes over him.

That's all Abbie needs to know. "Okay. Let's get you out of here. Can you stand?"

In the end, it takes both her and Jenny to lift Crane to his feet. At the edge of the hole Luke looms over, eyes following their every move. Between the three of them, they manage to get Crane out and to the surface. Jenny follows. Abbie gives the pine box and the nails one last look before reaching up for Luke's hand.

Jenny rides shotgun on the way back so Abbie can sit with Crane in the backseat. There hadn't really been much of a choice as Crane's still clutching her hands. Abbie doesn't once think to pull away.

"I'm sorry to have to do this to you," she murmurs in the quiet. "But we have to know, Crane. What happened?"

His eyes mist over in thought. "Katrina and I came through the portal. Parish was…" Crane swallows, eyes falling closed. "Jeremy."

"We know," Abbie says quietly, squeezing his hands.

It's a minute before he composes himself enough to continue. "We went to the Horseman's resting place and Katrina attempted her binding spell before we were informed that there was no creature beneath the earth to bind. Jeremy…he was so angry at us." His voice is barely a breath.

"I'm sorry. God, Crane, I am so sorry."

"Jeremy subdued us, and then summoned Abraham."

"Who took Katrina," Abbie says for him. "And Parish buried you."

"In the place he had laid for hundreds of years. The last thing I saw was his face, transformed by the mantle of War. Then…darkness."

"Jesus," mutters Jenny. Abbie looks up to see Luke watching the exchange wide-eyed in the rearview.

"I must find her," Crane says. "I must find them both."

"The only thing you're gonna find today is a hot meal and a bed," says Jenny firmly.

"I cannot lie in a bed and convalesce while the Horseman of Death holds my wife prisoner," Crane rebuts with a hint of old stubbornness.

"You can't go after her like this, either. And you know it," Abbie says as gently as she possibly can. "You were in the army, Crane. You know as well as I do that a soldier pushed past exhaustion is a liability." Crane clenches his eyes closed and Abbie searches for something, anything that will ease the pain. "Corbin's got mountains of research. You and I will go over all of it with a fine-toothed comb and find out where Death's little hidey-hole is. We're going to get her back, Crane. I promise you, we'll get her back."

"I know," he says, but there's no light in his eyes when he says it.

* * *

Even after being buried alive for twelve plus hours, Crane is still a gentleman and when Luke parks the car in front of the cabin, he offers Jenny and Abbie use of the bathroom first.

"You are welcome to bathe as well Detective Morales, if you please."

"Nah, I'll snag a shower back at the precinct."

Abbie looks at Jenny, who waves her hand. "Go on. You're the biggest mess here, anyway. I'm gonna see if I can scrounge up a meal. Come on, Morales. Let's you and I have a chat." Abbie thinks Luke looks far less eager than he had been to get the low down this morning.

In the bathroom, Abbie runs the water and peels herself out of her soiled clothes. She has no intention of putting them back on and she's glad to have had the foresight to stash a change in the hallway closet. It wasn't the first time she'd needed them; sometimes she was just too tired to drive back to her apartment after a long night running the streets chasing evil with Crane.

The warm water feels perfect, and Abbie assesses how much she'd strained herself unearthing that box Crane was in. Her thighs, calves and feet are all one mangled ball of ache, and any healing her sprained wrist had done had been undone with interest. It feels much worse than it had yesterday.

After she's scraped off every bit of mud and grime, Abbie turns her back and just lets the water cascade over her, replaying the day in her head. The memory of that boom and the image of the nails that had sealed the coffin closed loops over and over in her mind but for the life of her, Abbie can't figure out how she'd done it. But it had been her—it must have been, there was no other explanation.

Frustration simmers in her belly. What good is magic if she can't even figure out how to control it, if she can't summon it at will? With great trepidation, Abbie considers the night before: waking up in the woods and knowing with certainty that she had been freed from Purgatory. Clenching her eyes closed, she tries to summon up what had gone on while she'd been Moloch's prisoner. She had seen Jenny in there, Jenny and her parents and Crane. Of that, she was positive. But she can't remember words, or what the background was. She can't remember anything beyond the terror, terror so real that it had been hard even to breathe.

Useless. She can't remember a damn thing. Abbie opens her eyes and blinks in the spray. Her vision's gone darker in the interim and she reaches up a hand to rub her eyes.

There's a line of blood in her palm and the shocking red of it startles Abbie. She runs her hands over her body, checking for cuts or scrapes she might have missed before only to find none.

Then, she looks up. The blood is coming out of the showerhead.

Streams of it rain down over her hair and into her eyes, stinging. She sucks in a gasp, too startled even to cry out and the bitter tang bursts over her tongue. Blood pools at her feet, thick and hot, so hot, and then it is _burning_, searing her skin like a rain of fire and Abbie's jaw is dropping in a scream—

And then, it stops. Abbie hasn't screamed and the liquid pouring out of the jet is only water, spraying pleasantly warm over her skin.

Jerkily, Abbie reaches down and turns off the faucets. She can't get out of the shower fast enough.

Once she dries, Abbie opens the medicine cabinet and finds an ace bandage, which she wraps around her wrist. She closes the cabinet without looking at her reflection.

Abbie throws on the spare shirt and leggings in the guest room. By the time she emerges, the pipes in the house are humming again, this time for Crane. She wanders out into the living room. Jenny's in the kitchen peeling potatoes. Crane's coat lay draped over a chair and on the table in front of it is Abbie's cell phone.

Jenny throws a glance at Abbie from over her shoulder. "Look what I found. It chirped while you were in the shower."

Greedily, Abbie snatches it up. "Oh you precious thing, how I've missed you."

"First order of business is to change that fucking ringtone. I demand better," Jenny states. "I demand Beyonce."

"The queen must be earned." Abbie scrolls through the messages and finds one under an unknown number. She reads it aloud. "'Situation with Captain Irving remains grim. Exhausting all avenues. Will keep you apprised. Congratulations on finding Mr. Crane. Yours, Adam'."

Abbie looks up to find Jenny's expression blank. "I don't even want to know how he knows. Still think it's bullshit they aren't on the front lines of this thing."

"If they can get Irving cleared, they can hide in a broom cupboard whenever the Horseman come knocking for all I care." Abbie glances around the cabin. "Did Luke split?"

"Nah, he's on the porch. Said he needed some air. You might want to check on him, though."

Abbie stares at Jenny, who continues peeling without looking up. Heaving a sigh, she leaves the kitchen.

Luke's back greets Abbie when she steps out on the porch. He doesn't seem to hear her approach, but he glances her way when she sidles up next to him, setting her hands on the railing.

Abbie studies his expression and sighs again. "How much did Jenny tell you?"

"Everything." Luke, to his credit, sounds remarkably well-composed despite that almost vacant look in his eyes. It makes Abbie smile. His eyes hesitantly wander to meet hers. "The apocalypse. The actual _apocalypse_."

"'Fraid so."

"You're a Witness, like in Revelations. You and Crane."

"Yep."

"And Crane's from the eighteenth century."

"Wears it well, doesn't he? I mean, I know they say that black don't crack but Crane's pretty much busted the game wide open, right?"

Luke's eyes grow accusatory. "You're enjoying this."

"Who, me?" Abbie turns to look up at him, leaning her butt against the railing. "It's a lot to take in."

He eyes her up and down, as though seeing her for the first time. "You're a witch."

"Yeah," Abbie says, grin transforming into a sheepish expression. "That one's new for me, too. I just learned yesterday. Aren't you glad I broke it off with you?"

"Don't do that," Luke says, and Abbie feels about three feet tall. "God, this is just…_Christ_, Abbie. Why didn't you tell me about any of this before?"

"How exactly does somebody slip this into casual conversation, Luke?" Abbie shakes her head. "I don't know. Maybe a part of me was trying to keep you out of danger."

"Or maybe you didn't think I would believe you." Abbie bites her lips and Luke drags a hand over his face. "I wish you would've told me. I could've helped."

"You can help now," Abbie points out softly.

Luke is silent for a long minute. Eventually, he clears his throat. "Those hoof prints in the woods have to lead somewhere. Trail's probably frosty but Crane's wife is still missing. On the way, I'll call dispatch and cancel Crane's APB."

Before he can fully turn away, Abbie catches him by the lapels of his jacket. "This is gonna be unlike anything you've ever dealt with before, Luke. It's evil. Actual _evil_."

"I'll be careful."

"You check in with me every hour. Text or call or smoke signals. _Every_ hour, got it?"

"You're a little bossy, you know that?" Luke grins. "Every hour. Scout's honor."

"When the sun goes down, stop looking. He—the Horseman—can only ride at night."

"Ten-four. Abbie," he continues when she doesn't let go. "I'll be careful. I promise."

She knows she's being ridiculous. Luke's a Marine for Christ's sake. Out of everyone in the know, he's probably the best suited to fight the war that's coming. But she still hesitates to let Luke's jacket slip from her fingers.

"Take care of him. Let me know if he gives us any new information."

Abbie waits until his car disappears beyond the line of trees on the path before going back inside. The pipes are no longer humming and Jenny's got around to mashing the potatoes up in a bowl.

"You know, he's not so bad, Morales," she says as Abbie approaches her. "I can kind of see what you must have seen in him." Jenny pauses. "Tell him that, though, and you're going to end up in the river."

"My lips are sealed."

"Crane came out a few minutes ago. He looks a little better."

"Is he going to eat with us?"

Jenny shakes her head. "Says he's not hungry. He was looking for you, though. Seems like you're on man-duty today."

At the end of the hallway, Crane's bedroom door isn't closed but Abbie raps a few times on the frame anyway. It's a sign of how exhausted he is that Crane's already in bed with the covers pooled over his lap. Crane always got weird about what he called propriety and most of the time, Abbie thought it was sort of cute. It's sorely missed now, a shred of normalcy Abbie would give anything to see.

"Jenny says you aren't eating."

"I could not stomach food at present, I'm afraid."

Abbie considers it, lowering herself on the edge of the bed. "When you wake up, then." And she's going to make sure he eats, too. "How are you feeling?"

"In some ways, better. And in others…" Crane looks up. "It has been remiss of me to not inquire after you. You, too, have been through an ordeal."

It isn't the first time somebody's asked _are you okay_ since Purgatory. Jenny had flooded her with a barrage of questions yesterday and Luke had asked repeatedly in the car ride to the woods, but this is different. It's _him_ asking.

"I'm good." It is the hardest lie Abbie's ever had to tell.

Crane doesn't look like he believes it even for a second. "I cannot begin to imagine what your time in Purgatory must have been like." No, he couldn't. No one could. "I do not understand how you escaped if no one opened the portal again."

"Join the club. I don't know how I did it. Or if I really even did it. Adam certainly thinks so."

Crane's brow creases. "Adam?"

Abbie recounts her and Jenny's visit from the Masons. A bit of the exhaustion leaves Crane's eyes as he listens raptly, and they go a little wide when Abbie finally gets around to telling him the part about her new powers.

"A witch," he says, as if testing the word.

"You don't sound nearly as surprised as I was to find out."

"To borrow verbiage from Miss Jenny: it figures."

Abbie snorts. "You aren't worried I'll accidentally light your coat on fire?"

"Were I to have worries, they would be only for Moloch and the forces of evil. Abigail Mills is a force to be reckoned with. An Abigail Mills with magic under her sway would be nigh unstoppable."

Abbie smirks. She can scarcely imagine that a mere twenty-four hours ago, she thought she would never have this back. "All right, then. No food for you. Sleep. For the rest of the day, if you can. I know I certainly will."

He makes an aborted move before she rises from the bed, as if to stop her.

"Miss Mills," Crane says, looking at her cautiously. "I must ask something of you. It is quite unorthodox and wildly inappropriate—"

"Fuck being appropriate," Abbie interjects. Crane winces and she smiles, big and bright. For the first time since all this happened, Abbie thinks that they're going to be okay. "What do you want to ask?"

He lowers his eyes. "I would appreciate very much if you were here when I awaken. Please."

Abbie's smile softens. "For as long as you need me."

The look of gratification on Crane's face fades too quickly. "Many a thought went through my mind when I believed I was going to die. Jeremy's betrayal, my beloved Katrina a captive of my greatest enemy. The apocalypse sweeping over an unsuspecting world because I failed. But near the end, I found myself thinking of you. You, who had sacrificed yourself so that Katrina and I could escape, forever Moloch's prisoner, left to suffer alone and wonder why I did not keep my word and come back for you. It proved to be the thought that plagued me most of all."

Abbie's throat tightens and suddenly, she can't look at him anymore. Through blurred eyes, she can see his hand drift out across the blankets. Long fingers wrap themselves around hers.

"No. Oh, no, please, Abbie. Please don't."

"I'm okay," Abbie says in a rush, even though the words are watery. "I'm okay."

"Please don't weep. I could not bear it."

"I'm fine, really," she says even though she _isn't_, damn him. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and looks back down at him. "Come on, now. You need to get some rest, and I do, too."

He nods, but doesn't let go of her hand. His thumb traces the edge of the bandage she's wrapped around her wrist. "Never again," Crane says with a quiet intensity, holding her gaze. "I vow to you that I will never leave you again."

Only when Crane finally closes his eyes does Abbie pull her hand away.


End file.
